An Absence of Colour
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has spent the last seven years telling himself that Molly Hooper is the dullest, blandest, most bloodless creature he's ever met. So why is she so hard to expel from his mind? Why does he dwell on her, even when there's so much more colour in his world? It really is a puzzle... From first meeting to last goodbye, this is how he tries to solve it. Rating may change.
1. White Lie

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 _~ White Lie ~_

* * *

The first time he sees her, it's not in the Path Lab or the Morgue (despite what some might assume).

No, she's wandering down one of Bart's labyrinthine corridors, several student doctors and a couple of nurses at her heels. The group are singing and dancing and generally causing mayhem, already drunk and eager to get away for the evening. She- like most of the women- is dressed as an angel, a tinsel halo on her head, a pair of decidedly lopsided white wings pinned to her back. She's tottering about on mile-high white heels, her arms and legs bared in a short, sheer little white dress that no self-respecting celestial messenger would dream of wearing-

Sherlock cuts her a bloody wide berth.

Something deep within him yells _danger!_ at the sight of her and, consummate professional that he believes himself to be, he heeds the warning of that particular voice-

 _It doesn't matter how pretty he finds her._

Besides, he reminds himself sternly, doesn't have time for this. He doesn't have time for her. He's here to meet his new Met contact, to show Mikey and everyone else that he can be trusted. He should have no interest in sweet little things wearing sweet little costumes, even if it is Halloween and even if she is stumbling towards him under what looks rather more like gravity's power than her own-

He is proved correct in that deduction when she trips just as she reaches him.

She lands atop him, sprawled and messy, and one would be hard-pressed to judge which of them was the more mortified by this development.

He should let her fall- Lord knows, it would teach her about appropriate footwear- but his arms come around her, apparently of their own accord, and he manages to keep her upright. She giggles and blinks up at him, all wide brown eyes and soft brown hair and complete lack of balance. Her body's pressed against his, one coltish arm digging into the wall beside him while she tries to get her feet under her. (She does not succeed).

Sherlock stares down at her, oddly nonplussed by his own reaction to her nearness and as he does so she suddenly grins up at him, attempts to hold out her other hand to his to shake-

"Molly Hooper," she says brightly. "Incompetent angel. How are you tonight, handsome?"

Sherlock tells himself he shouldn't answer.

Instead he picks her up and deposits her back on her feet, leaning her against the wall as one might a plank of wood before turning swiftly on his heel and stalking off without saying a word. He can feel his face burning as he goes. The lack of loud noises or yelling tells him that Ms. Incompetent Angel has not fallen over and landed flat on her backside, something for which he elects not to feel grateful-

He huffs around the corner, trying to ignore the female voice which commiserates with Molly that yes, the pillock who caught her does indeed have a nice arse.

 _The fact that this makes the red in his face worse is neither here nor there._

He finds Lestrade waiting for him outside the morgue, a younger man than he expected though every bit as handsome as his brother's interest would lead one to assume. The DI looks him up and down and then reaches out, grinning. With a small smile he brushes a smattering of white glitter off Sherlock's shoulder before picking off a single, cheap fake feather. He holds it before Sherlock's nose like a prize.

"Something you want to tell me?" he asks.

"No." Holmes looks down his nose at him, using his rather greater height to try and intimidate the other man into silence. (Alas, it appears his methods have not succeeded because Lestrade's grin merely widens).

"Course not," the DI says jovially. "I'm sure you've no idea where that came from. Now how about we go meet my old friend Mike Stamford and we'll see what Mr. Reece-Morgan's corpse can tell you, eh?"

Sherlock inclines his head curtly, gesturing for the older man to lead the way. This he does, babbling away about trivialities as he goes. Sherlock tries to concentrate, really he does, but most people are so boring and muting them has become such a habit-

Besides, there's an angel behind his eyelids, incompetent as she may be.

He finds her irritatingly distracting.

He solves the Reece-Morgan murder right there in the morgue and in his delight and pride at Lestrade's praise he tells himself that he'll soon forget a clumsy young woman and her clumsy greetings. He'll certainty delete the mental image he has of her.

He's home- alone and half-asleep- when he tries to do so but for some odd reason he doesn't succeed.

 _He can't imagine why._


	2. White Noise

_Disclaimer_ : This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Bekah1218 and likingthistoomuch. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 _~ White Noise ~_

* * *

The first time he realises who she is, he's being threatened with being thrown out of the Path Lab.

He and Dr. Sorenson have had a disagreement- _apparently Sherlock's not supposed to just announce to the room that someone's having marital difficulties_ \- and the afflicted pathologist is calling for security, demanding Sherlock be removed.

Needless to say, Holmes feels that he's overreacting just a tiny bit.

Someone- _Molly, The Incompetent Angel_ , Sherlock realises- has come in to see what the commotion's about and when she tries to calm things down he takes advantage of her kindness to ask her to swap with Sorenson. He needs access to the lab for his work with Scotland Yard, he wheedles, and if she's here then her supervisor can't claim he's not being properly watched. After all, he can tell she's new to her post here in the Morgue but top of her class and she's clearly trusted by her colleagues, what with the cultures they're letting her work with, unsupervised-

Molly looks from he to Sorenson as he speaks, her cheeks flushed and pupils dilated- _attraction to me_ , Sherlock thinks, _how tedious_ \- but when the older man allows that she'll provide an adequate nanny and stalks out Sherlock shoots her his brightest, best smile.

He doesn't even have to fake it.

She takes in a sharp breath at the sight, her hands clasping tightly against the white fabric of her lab coat and for no reason he wishes to ruminate on his own follow suit.

(Luckily however, she doesn't seem to notice and for that, he is quite grateful).

So he gets back to work. Sets about deleting his reaction to her. (He's waiting to see if keeping the memory of their first meeting will prove in any way useful before he elects to tamper with it). She stammers out something about being here if he needs anything and then scurries back over to the office laptop, her cheeks reddening as she seats herself and starts pulling up what Sherlock assumes must be paperwork on her other cases. After a while- _maybe an hour?_ \- low level music starts strumming through the room and when he looks up at her Sherlock realises it's because she's popped in a pair of ear-buds and is listening to music on her phone. It's something loud and aggressive and distinctly seventies.

She must notice him noticing, because the volume of the music decreases rather significantly a moment later.

He elects to ignore this, instead going over the corpse of the Manheim murder in blissful peace, the facts of the case fitting together inside his head with satisfying ease and completeness in this relatively stress-free environment. (As he had suspected, the deceased had spent several years in Arkhangelsk, it was obvious from the state of his nails.) By the time he's done it's dark outside but Molly is still hunched over her terminal, a mug of chamomile tea in her hand as the rain howls and slaps at the windows-

She's stretching her neck from side to side when he looks up at her, some seldom-felt sense of self-preservation telling him to be polite and try to keep her on-side, should he wish to enjoy such a hassle-free nanny the next time he's in the Path Lab.

To that end he walks up to her and clears his throat, smiling in what he hopes is a friendly manner as she blinks up at him and yanks her ear-buds out of her ears. (She's listening to Vivaldi now).

"Got everything you need?" she stammers at his approach and he nods, surprised at how… entertaining he finds her reaction to his nearness.

 _She's blushing and it's really rather… fetching, is what it is._

"For now," he says. "Thought I might finish up and let you go home- Is that alright?"

He knows damn well that it's alright and he knows damn well that she's going to tell him so. Just as he knows damn well that he's engaging in nonsensical small-talk but, well, he doesn't want to have Mycroft or Lestrade smooth anything over this early in his career so he figures there's no trouble in being polite. Not, at least, to her.

She does precisely as he had deduced- _again_ , he thinks, _so tedious_ \- and agrees. Offers her effusive thanks, nearly tripping over her plain, flat brown shoes and her white lab coat as she hurries to get to her feet and out of the Lab.

"It was lovely to finally meet you," she says shyly as she locks up. "I hope I'll be seeing you around again soon- Safe home."

And with that she ducks her head and hurries away, poking her ear-buds back in as she goes.

She only narrowly avoids walking into a one of the litter bins as she rounds the corner and it is with great difficulty that Sherlock doesn't snicker.

 _She really is the oddest creature_ , he thinks.

As he watches she darts towards the wing's changing rooms, pulling off her white lab coat as she goes, revealing an outfit of baggy tan slacks and an enormous, ill-fitting white peasant blouse, the looseness of which makes her look almost like a ghost in the gloom of the hospital. The supernatural effect is, however, somewhat ruined when she fails to notice the three steps which lead down to the changing rooms and nearly trips down all three.

Sherlock watches her catch herself, swearing colourfully under her breath as she does and he shakes his head. Sets off for home.

There's a spring in his step as he calls Lestrade and tells him his findings.

It's only later that night, when he's going through his traditional it's-3am-and-I'm-bored violin recital that something occurs to him, something which he belatedly realises should have occurred to him earlier. _It was lovely to **finally** meet you_ , she'd said, as if- As if she didn't remember meeting him the first time. As if he hadn't made any sort of impression, that time they'd met in the hall.

Sherlock frowns, removing the violin from his shoulder and glowering into the darkness.

 _That can't be right,_ he thinks.

After all, yes, she was incredibly drunk but he was Sherlock Holmes and she fancied the knickers off him- She said he had a nice arse and everything-How could she not remember?

 _More to the point, how could she not remember **him**? He's Sherlock bloody Holmes!_

Sherlock has never dealt well with being ignored and he doesn't miraculously pick up the skill now… Rather he sits on his bed and pouts. Runs through his scales and exercises with a great deal more volume and force than is necessary and then, when Mrs. Hudson starts banging on the floor from her flat below he deletes the memory of his and Molly's first meeting in a flurry of righteous indignation.

(That will show her to not remember him, he tells himself).

Thanks to this fit of pique however, he often finds himself wondering- in the years which follow- why it's always felt as if she's always been present in his memories? Why he can't recall the first time they met, since such a memory would doubtless be a useful tool with which to charm her when he's looking for something?

It never occurs to him it might be his own damn fault, but then taking responsibility for his actions is not the sort of thing at which Sherlock excels.


	3. White Christmas

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to panocha, kraftykathy and shazzykins. Enjoy!

* * *

 _~ White Christmas ~_

* * *

He tells himself he doesn't know when the, the… messiness with Molly started, but of course that's a lie.

It started that snowy Christmas, at a ghastly seasonal party where he turned in an even more ghastly performance. _One which even he had had to admit qualified him for Complete and Utter Prickhood._ He'd like to have blamed that on Irene Adler as he had so much else but no- Dr. Molly Hooper was the one to blame.

He shouldn't try to deprive his conqueror of her laurels.

Because she'd come in, all tight, look-at-me dress and shiny, long, please-stroke-me hair. She'd shivered and fluttered about the flat like some sort of trapped moth and it had made Sherlock stare. Shift uncomfortably. He didn't know what to do with himself.

She'd grated on his Last. Bloody. Nerve, so he'd done what he's always done: He'd eliminated the irritant.

 _That he had felt ever so slightly like he was tearing the wings off a particularly helpless butterfly was not a thought upon which he wished to dwell._

But still, it hadn't stopped him. _Pity never stopped him_. He'd deduced her ridiculous, adolescent notions of her own attractiveness in front of everyone. He's announced to the room what she was up to, his intent that of shaming her into sitting still and being silent and please, please, _please_ putting some bloody clothes on because what she was wearing was hideously distracting-

Of course none of those things had happened as a result of his actions.

No, the situation had (deservedly) blown up in his face, just as he ought to have known it would.

For Molly's imagined, interloping beau had turned out to be _him,_ her show had been an attempt to catch _his_ eye. All his anger and sarcasm had ended up sounding petulant, when he realised that she had done all this in order to attract him, misshapen and difficult and emotionally unappealing as he was. Misshapen and difficult and emotionally unappealing as he'd always known himself to be.

So he'd apologised. Tried his best to be kind.

The look on John's face told him that he had even succeeded.

But then he'd been called in to identify The Woman and Molly had had to be forgotten. Adler had been dead on a slab, after all, and he'd been distracted, so distracted by this thing she seemed to rile in him that he hadn't had the time- or indeed, the inclination- to investigate what his reaction to Molly that night in his flat meant.

No, he'd gone home.

Kept to his rooms and his violin.

He refused to characterise what he was doing as grieving.

He'd sat on his hands, curled up in his bed, and reminded himself that taking anything stronger than a cigarette was tantamount to suicide- however slowly he may work his way up to it- and that having to go back into rehab over something so maudlin as the notion that a woman he found intriguing was dead would be the most melodramatic thing he'd done in his entire, melodramatic life.

 _Even **you**_ , _Sherlock_ , he'd reminded himself, _must maintain some standards._

 _Yes, Adler is interesting, but think of all the people you'd upset if you went and did anything... foolish._

It had been a dodgy few hours, that cracked, fragile period between nightfall and dawn. He'd sat on his bed, the violin at his shoulder and tried, with all that was in him, not to think about The Woman or the feelings she roused in him. The things she made him want to say. The things she made him want to do. It wasn't his area and he told himself he was happy with that. These thoughts were mere weakness. Laziness. He had no right to entertain them. He hadn't those feelings, not really, they were a lie his body told him when it didn't want to bother with the discipline that The Work anymore...

With each thought he'd worked himself farther inside the cocoon of apathy which he always wove about himself in times of stress; Eventually, he'd fallen into a bitter, uncomfortable sleep in the early hours, unable to remain conscious and yet instinctively suspicion of consciousness' loss.

And it was a loss which he should have been suspicious of, as it turns out.

That loss of consciousness- that sleep- scuppered everything.

For in those dark, hard-fought moments of sleep when his body had given in as his mind had not, he conjured… He conjured images. Thoughts and desires and memories. Things half-formed and utterly unspeakable. They jilted and shuddered together, bled one into the other. Those deeds he wanted to perform on Irene Adler. Those deeds he wanted her to perform on him. And other things, moans and sensations and smells. Feelings. The sight of two women together, warm chestnut hair clenched between Irene's fingers as she kissed… As she kissed an angel. As she divested that beautiful creature of her wings, her shoes. Her little white dress.

The angel's sweet, brown, _familiar_ eyes remained fixed on him the entire time.

In the cold light of morning Sherlock scoffs at such inane prurience. He pushes the memories away. He hasn't woken like this in years, covered in his own sweat and come, and he's not willing to bloody let it become a habit. He is not, despite what John sometimes claims, actually a teenaged boy.

But though the Adler case finishes up shortly thereafter, it's like a dam's been broken. An embargo lifted.

His chaste, stern existence never quite regains its equilibrium in the aftermath.

For while The Woman remains at large, out there somewhere and causing trouble to people who resolutely aren't Sherlock, the other woman he dreamt of that night isn't going anywhere. No, in fact she's getting closer to him. Closer to his life, his heart. Closer than almost anyone, though he isn't willing to let himself see it yet. And when he needs a metaphorical one of her kind, a guardian angel, it's her he turns to.

 _In Molly We Trust_ , that's what he sometimes thinks.

He just hopes she never asks him what he thinks of her and her well-earned wings, when it's just the pair of them inside the privacy of his mind.


	4. Whiteout

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to likingthistoomuch, shazzykins, Emma Lynch, Icecat 62 and my mystery guest for their reviews. Please be aware this chapter has a teensy bit of swearing. Enjoy!

* * *

 _~ Whiteout ~_

* * *

The first time he realises how deeply she's embedded herself into his life is also, by a complete and utter coincidence, the first time he nearly bleeds to death.

It's also the first time he lets himself acknowledge just how much he misses home.

For he's in a back alley off the Arbat in Moscow, trying to stay upright and ahead of one of Moriarty's more… goal-orientated associates. The blood loss is beginning to disorientate him and he can't seem to remember which particular casino Irene said she'd use as a rendezvous, his ability to see clearly- let alone read anything in Cyrillic- having deserted him. Everything's getting too loud and too near and too bright and he's starting to be a tiny bit afraid that he's not going to find his contact, that this mission is going to be his last-

It's ridiculous, but there's a brunette ahead of him in a barely-there white dress and white heels.

Her long dark hair and pale skin reminds him of something- of some _one_ \- that he can't quite place and he finds himself staggering up to her, muttering in badly broken Russian that he needs help.

 _Something deep within him tells him that the possibility of that help resides with her._

The young woman's gets a fright. Screams as he tries to pull her to a halt. She's with someone, a muscled, tattooed mountain of a man with a shaved head; He is not, needless to say, terribly impressed with some broken-down foreigner making a grab for his woman and he makes his feelings about the matter clear. By the time he's finished Sherlock's on his knees on the filthy, rain-soaked pavement, trying not to retch and desperately pressing at his wounded shoulder. There's blood dribbling down his chin and one of his eyes is rapidly swelling shut. Passers-by are giving him a wide berth and he knows it's only a matter of time before either Moriarty's associate or one of the infamous Moscow _militsyia_ pick him up...

If that happens, he may well be done for.

He closes his eyes, remembers John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, all the people he has to get back to and from somewhere deep within him, he finds the strength to forge ahead.

Somehow, somehow he manages to get to his feet, manages to stagger towards an alley. He uses the wall at his back to keep himself upright and does the one thing he had promised himself he'd never do: he pulls out his phone and calls Mycroft. Asks to be extracted, or at least to be taken in.

He doesn't hear his brother's answer, though he knows he takes the call; His heart-beat's pounding so loudly in his ears, you see, the screaming traffic and the hissing rain rising in cacophony about him. He can feel his knees starting to go from under him and, from the sheer need to distract himself, he digs his nails into the stone wall behind him. Lays his head back against it and closes his eyes. Face tipped upwards, breathing ragged, he the icy wind rakes his skin, tugging his hair. Another gust of wind blusters by and it nearly knocks him over. Sherlock sighs: With every fibre of his being he just wants to let go, just wants to give himself over to oblivion, but then-

 _Then-_

Then something totally, utterly impossible happens.

For arms slide around him. They're strong. Soft. Safe. A scent rises in his nostrils, lemon and vanilla and just underneath it the smell of carbolic soap and decomp. _For him, this is the scent of home_. He feels something soft and silky- _human hair?_ \- press against his throat, tickling, almost as if… Almost as if someone had tucked themselves underneath his chin and was holding him close. Holding him tight. There's warmth at his chest now, someone breathing in time with him. He opens his eyes and he sees Molly Hooper looking up at him, clear as day.

"Jesus fucking Christ," is what he says.

"Not really my area," is what she answers. "But thank you for the vote of confidence anyway."

And she grins, showing her dimples. Sherlock stares: Her eyes are starry, bright. She's wearing a sheer, little white dress and her feet are bare. Bloody, dark hand-prints twine around her ankles, her toes. There's blood and dirt beneath her fingernails. A tinsel halo sits, lop-sided, on her head and at her back… At her back are a pair of perfect, impossible, blindingly bright wings. Blood and tar are visible on some of their feathers' outermost tips; Here and there peacock feathers peek out, the green and blue dazzling where they're threaded through the white...

He must react to the sight because before he can speak she reaches up on tiptoe. Presses a kiss to his mouth.

"Don't say anything," she murmurs. "I know: I've taken a leaf out of your book and decided to become impossible." She smooths down her dress. Her feathers. "It's more difficult than you make it look, it seems."

Sherlock shakes his head, tries to straighten up and without his quite wanting to his arms tighten around her.

"You're not here," he croaks out. "You can't be here- I wouldn't _let_ you be here-"

"Don't I know it." Her smile is sad. Rueful. "Why are you always trying to protect me, Sherlock?" she asks and rather than answer he pulls her closer, without thinking. Holds her tighter, without thinking. Without any forethought whatsoever he plants a kiss against her forehead, leans his forehead against hers as they breathe in time. Her skin is warm and pale and smooth. It feels so soothing against his own.

"I need you to do something for me," she's saying and her voice is so soft, so welcome, that instinctively he nods. Acquiesces.

His tongue feels thick in his mouth as he slurs out, "I think I'd do anything for you."

Molly smiles at that, her eyes turning brighter as she leans up. Kisses him. It makes him feel light headed but he feels a little stronger too.

 _Maybe that's what being kissed by a celestial messenger did to everyone, but he has his doubts._

"You have to hold on," she's saying quietly. "When they take you in, when they tie you down, you have to hold on for me: Can you do that?"

Sherlock nods but he feels confused. Groggy. The sense of wellness which her presence brought is beginning to dissipate. He can feel himself shivering and he is suddenly, frighteningly aware that he's lost an awful lot of blood. It's pooling with the rainwater at his feet.

"I'll hold on," he says tightly though. "I just- I just can't be sure for how long I can-"

She kisses him again, cutting him off. This time when he opens his eyes to look at her she's Irene's angel again. Her wings man-made. Synthetic. Her body bare and soft and sweet beneath his hands. No more blood or dirt, just whiteness.

Touching her makes his skin itch. It makes his skin _burn_.

"You will hold on," she tells him, and now her voice is stronger. It brooks no argument. "You will hold on until I give you permission to let go, is that quite clear Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

He frowns, unsure and confused. His vision's going blurry. When he bobs his head in agreement though her eyes soften. Suddenly she is brightness and light personified again. Suddenly she's his Molly, his Incompetent Angel, no matter how she may have looked in his dreams of Irene oh so long ago.

"Will you be with me?" he asks and he's aware his voice sounds ridiculous. Lost.

He feels almost like a child.

"Of course I'll be with you," she answers. Her tone turns wry. "What on Earth makes you think that I ever leave?"

He has an answer for that, he does, but before he can speak someone's lowering him onto his back. Putting a blanket around his shoulders. He opens his eyes to see a man in what is obviously a fake _militsyia_ uniform loading him into the back of a police ambulance and though he wants to protest, all his strength is gone.

* * *

The next few days are difficult. Scarring. It takes Mycroft and The Woman far too long to find him and when they do, he can tell they're worried about what's been done to him. The extent of it. The fallout.

It's after this mission that Mycroft stops being willing to have Adler act as Sherlock's official handler.

It makes no difference, of course: he and Adler continue to work together off the books. Sherlock even explains to her, one night when he's far too drunk and far too lonely to be circumspect, just what he saw that night off the Arbat. _He saw a vision in white and she told him he had to stay_. He's sent to convalesce in a convent somewhere outside of Nizhni Novgorod in the aftermath and though he scoffs as he stares at the religious icons on his room's walls, in his dreams he feels feathers and warm, perfect flesh beneath his hands. Warm, perfect flesh beneath his fingertips.

Eventually he can't take the ache which their absence brings and he deletes the memory of his vision whole-cloth.


	5. White Wash

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Bekah1218, shazzykins, likingthistoomuch and Aphraelsan.

* * *

 _~ White Wash ~_

* * *

The first time he realises how deeply she's embedded herself into his life is the day he finds out about her engagement.

It is also the day it finally occurs to him how much has changed in the two years he's been gone.

For he had expected Mycroft to move into more spacious offices. He'd expected Mrs. Hudson to have a new boyfriend and Lestrade to have moved ahead with his divorce. He'd even expected there to be a woman in John's bed; The absence of such a person would have been more of a cause for worry in Sherlock than her presence.

 _John is John, he is well aware._

But Molly- Molly he had assumed he would find as he left her. Still pining and single and utterly bewitched by him. Still waiting for him with her badly-applied makeup and drab, middle-parted hair, so much more human than angel that her very mundanity proved a snare. In fact it had been rather a balm to him, during the worst months of his time away, to imagine their reunion: He had pictured her stammering as he entered, asking him where he'd been. He'd imagined allowing himself to be magnanimous, to tell her stories of his feats of derring do.

He would, of course, leave out all of the more… unsavoury lengths to which his hunt had driven him.

For some reason he cannot fathom, the thought of relating those adventures to her leaves him absolutely cold.

By the time he'd finished she'd be breathless. Delighted. She'd thank him for all he'd done, tell him how worth it everything had been. She might even press her lips to his cheek, sweet and chaste and every inch the Incompetent Angel he'd first met. Sweet and chaste, as far from Irene Adler's Falling Angel as it was possible to be.

And then she would smile at him and, and somehow…

Somehow things would progress.

 _Sherlock would find a way to make sure things progressed._

Matters would move to talk of sentiment- No, he'd _move_ matters to talk of sentiment. It was, after all, what he had been looking for in coming to see her so soon. In his darker moments- during those few bouts of severe blood-loss he'd suffered in Serbia- he'd even imagined this moment of reunion, imagined her thanking him for saving her from Jim Moriarty. For ensuring that Jim From IT would never bother him again. In the safety of his mind she'd wrapped her arms around him and breathed out just how pleased she was to have him back… Breathed out just how she wanted to show him her gratitude…

It had curled Sherlock's toes in his shoes, how much he'd liked that fantasy. Just as it had shamed him, how often he'd indulged it. Him, the higher-functioning sociopath. Him, the man who ordered his best friend to never believe him a hero. And yet there he was, bloody fantasising about saving Molly Hooper from his foes and telling himself he hates it-

 _Do you hate it?_ A voice which sounded uncannily like Irene Adler's had sometimes asked him in the still of the night, as he lay there, heart hammering, skin covered in sweat and, sometimes, other things. _Do you hate it, darling boy? **Do you really?**_

The fact that he had no answer to that question, that voice, that he hadn't wanted to answer it, had kept him silent for two solid years.

But the two years are over now, he tells himself, and he could stay away no longer. So he'd snuck into Barts, his heart light, his eye on the future- And what did he find? His pathologist, with a ring on her finger. His pathologist, blithely planning on shacking up with someone else even though Sherlock was home. Even though Sherlock was ready for... something, something he cannot make himself name. _It is a situation not to be borne._ She's delighted to see him, of course, sweet and inquiring and happy, so happy he's home. So relieved, she tells him, because she had worried for his safety every single day. As she speaks the words she stares up at him with eyes both wide and bright, one perfect, small lip bitten between her teeth, the sight of it enough to make his heart stutter in his breast-

 _But she's engaged_ , he reminds himself. _She's taken._

 _She's not yours, oh no. She's not yours anymore._

In his head, he thinks he can hear Irene Adler's laughter.

 _She'd moved on with her life and she's done it with someone who resolutely isn't him and that... That hurts,_ he realises _, in a way he hadn't been expecting._

The realisation comes like a body blow though he knows he should be happy for her, good friend that she has been to him. Good friend that she _is._ Sherlock wants to be furious, he wants to be awful. He wants to be petulant and vicious and petty, to tear her to pieces for having the audacity to create a life without him. For having the audacity to derail his plans like this.

But he can't, he finds.

He can't ever be awful to Molly Hooper, not anymore. He just doesn't seem to have it in him.

So he says hello, invites her to Baker Street. He tries to make himself invite this fiancé of hers along too, but that he cannot bring himself to do.

She stammers out a yes, presses a parting kiss to his cheek as he heads out to find Lestrade. (He can't go to John now though he wants to; He can't deal with his best friend's anger on top of all this). All the way to Scotland Yard he feels the pressure of her lips against his skin though he knows that he shouldn't care at all.

So he heads back to Baker Street, locks himself into his bedroom. He closes his eyes, tells himself he's going to erase everything about Molly but the essentials. He's going to clear her from his memory once and for all, is going to make sure there can never again be such nonsense as today.

 _He will never again allow himself to be so foolish._

He lays down on his bed, clears his mind. Slows his breathing. _It isn't difficult._ His body is leaden, a housing case for a hard-drive. Transport. The possibility of bipedal motion and nothing more. But behind his eyelids, he sees are feathers. White, brilliant, perfect feathers. They are proof of an angel's presence. An accusation of cowardice in wartime, perhaps. A memory dances out of reach, a St. Barts corridor and the Path Lab, an alley in Moscow. A soft, sweet laugh. Brown eyes, a hand on his shoulder. _What do you need, Sherlock?_

 _What do you need?_

 ** _What do you need?_**

He doesn't know anymore, he wants to scream. He doesn't know what symbols mean, feathered or otherwise. He's not a poet and only poets know how to talk about the things he can feel scratching and hissing and whispering inside him. Only poets would be stupid enough to believe the human heart real.

He wraps himself in the bedclothes, still wearing his suit. His shoes. His hands are clenched together, so tightly his nails bite into his palms.

That's how Mrs. Hudson finds him the next morning, and she keeps Mycroft from his rooms until he can make himself presentable to the world at large.


	6. White Knight

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. _Mentions of violence and threats, though nothing explicit in this one._ And thanks for their reviews go to likingthistoomuch, Soberdog and Icecat62. Enjoy!

* * *

 _~ White Knight ~_

* * *

The first time he realises just how much danger his little crush puts her in, his enemies have sent footage directly to his phone.

It's months after the Moriarty Hoax and they're still not talking, but apparently she can be used as a weapon against him anyway.

The footage shows Molly, on her back on a kitchen table and clearly intoxicated. _She doesn't even look like she knows where she is_. Her face is wet with tears, streams of mascara tracking down her cheeks; There's a battered tinsel halo smushed against her hair. Her hands and feet are bound tightly with white satin, the knots so inexpertly yet tightly tied that they're bound to cause damage. _It makes her look bizarrely like a badly-wrapped gift._ A pale band of white satin is tied about her eyes, another gagging her mouth and she's not… She's not wearing much at all beyond that.

The realisation makes Sherlock's heart stop in his chest.

When it starts again, it's pounding in fury.

Because he knows who is responsible for this, and he is responsible for her- It was he who had, after all, saved her in the aftermath of the Belgravia case-

For the first time in his entire life he finds himself wishing viscerally that he had heeded his brother's warnings and let someone die.

But he cannot concentrate on that now: _Molly needs him_. In the footage she shakes her head from side to side, confused and seemingly incoherent as her captors jeer and torment her. They pour beer on her, flick cigarettes and God knows what else, rough laughter sounding in the background even as he digs his nails into his palms. Grits his teeth. Sherlock knows only too well what's being implied, and what she will suffer should he dawdle in working out where she is... But it's not easy, there are no clues visible. The wobbling camera-phone used keeps its focus on Molly's expression, the tight close-up on her revealing nothing of her whereabouts or the people who have taken her, only that she is in danger and- judging by who this has been sent to- that it is because of him. But still-

Sherlock's on his feet and reaching for his Belstaff before the footage has even stopped playing.

He rings John first because- Well, obviously he rings John first. He might need someone to shoot some people. And then he hauls The British Government out of bed, pretending not to hear Anthea's annoyed harrumph at being woken.

 _Having a literal Big Brother should be good for something,_ Sherlock thinks.

And it is. Within five minutes Mycroft has every available operative in his organisation searching for the diminutive pathologist though it is Mary who finds her and drives the getaway car which brings he and John to rescue her. It is not, after all, difficult to track down the owner of the bank account to which the footage demands Sherlock send several hundred thousand pounds if he "wants to see his girlfriend again."

The new Mrs. Watson's research brings she, John and Sherlock to an unused mechanics' garage in the middle of Hampstead, one so far off the beaten track that the occupiers must have assumed their activities would not draw attention. This notion is exploded when Sherlock, John, Mary and several of the Met's finest literally kick the door in, all armed to the teeth and demanding to know where Dr. Hooper is-

They find five men, all drunk, and most of them show signs of having been in an altercation with someone a great deal shorter than they.

The men refuse to cooperate, telling the police, Sherlock and the Watsons that they don't know what they're talking about. Fortunately however John finds his way back to the garage office, drawn by a hunch that the shape of the house doesn't make any sense unless there's something back there. Sherlock follows, senses straining, desperate to find Molly and frustrated he's not doing it.

This frustration is probably responsible for his holding his tongue, and that silence is responsible for his finding Molly alive.

For in the tense silence with which he and John search the house, he hears a small cry, so low it would have gone unnoticed had he not being looking for it-

There's a secret room, he realises, behind the office.

When they pry the doors open he sees evidence of contraband and violence which clearly goes back years.

But none of it matters, none of it at all, because there, on a filthy cot with a man three times her size holding her down, is Dr. Molly Hooper. She's hissing and twisting, fighting her attacker and trying to get away though she is bound and blinded. John gets to the man first, neatly dispatching him before his best friend can, since he probably understands what his best friend would do to the miscreant. He frog-marches the bastard out of the room and towards the police while Sherlock-

Slowly, gently, Sherlock approaches his friend.

He kneels down in front of her.

She twists her head, frowning, fear moving through her features as she registers how quiet everything's gotten and, doubtless, starts pondering a reason for it-

"It's alright," he says gently, and he hates how, how weak his voice sounds. How hoarse. _He doesn't want to frighten her_. "It's alright now, Molly, I'm going to take away the blind-fold and gag-

"Is that amenable to you?"

She nods eagerly, relief on her face as she recognises his voice. He takes the fabric from her eyes first, reasoning that if she can see him she'll feel more comfortable than if she remains in the dark. When he pulls it off her eyes focus on him, fresh tears starting, and he can't help it, he takes her face in his hands, wipes them away. He kisses her forehead. There's something heavy and sharp and unmanageable in his chest, a ball of need and want, and he doesn't know how to make it go away.

"There now," he says, rather than focus on it. "That's better, isn't it?" His voice is crooning. "Isn't it, Molly?"

She nods and, with no small amount of difficulty, he lets his hands drop from her cheeks, sets to work on her gag. It's been tied far too tightly, the fabric chafing against the soft skin around her mouth, her jaw and rubbing it raw. _It looks rather painful._

When he pulls it away she takes in a massive, whooshing breath and promptly bursts into tears again. The sound is so loud- or maybe he's just finished with his prey, he _is_ a doctor- that it calls John and Mary in from the front of the house as Sherlock holds her and tries to calm her. Soothe her.

He doesn't know what else to do.

Fortunately however, it isn't only up to him. The Watsons swarm over Molly, checking her as she sobs. Mary takes a knife and cuts her ankles and wrists loose, rubbing gently at the skin to restore circulation while Sherlock continues to rock her in his embrace. John calls to her, asks if she knows what she's been given. Whether she's bleeding, whether there's any part of her that needs attention now-

She shakes her head, holding onto Holmes tighter; She feels so small in his arms that Sherlock doesn't want to let her go, not even into the custody of his best friend. Eventually the police come in, try to take her away but she doesn't want to leave. She clings onto Sherlock with fingers like tiny, prickling vices and he refuses to allow them to have her.

He may even have yelled something to that effect, for the police fall back and stare.

"She has to go to a hospital to be checked, Sherlock," he hears John say quietly. Suddenly- and he has no idea how it happened- his friend's hand is at his shoulder, his voice calm. Sherlock doesn't want it there, and yet he doesn't shrug it away. "I'm assuming she'll want to press charges," John's saying, "and for that, she'll need to go through a forensic exam- You know the drill, mate."

Sherlock looks down at the tiny woman in his arms, the woman who has lost so much because of him, who was taken merely because she _knows_ him, and raises his eyebrows in question to her.

"Will you stay with me?" she asks and he nods.

He's not going to leave her. He tells himself he's never going to leave her.

"Then it's alright," she says, her voice cracking slightly. She takes a deep breath in through her nose, tries to steady herself, and nods to the lead detective. "I can go-"

She makes to stand but Sherlock's having none of it: He picks her up and carries her through the house.

It's a mark of how hurt and tired she is that she doesn't even try to object.

The police part like the Red Sea for them, but Sherlock Holmes doesn't even notice.

* * *

It's only much later, when she's lying in a hospital bed for a night of observation, him hunched over in a chair beside her and dozing, that Sherlock lets himself contemplate how, how awful tonight has been for her.

He sits and stares and tries to work out why, why he's always hurting her though he never bloody means to-

"Penny for your thoughts?" he hears John's voice.

He opens his eyes, turns to see his friend, standing at the door to Molly's room. The look on his face is so… tender.

He feels a flash of jealousy, that John can be so bloody free with his feelings, and (as always) on its heels there arrives a tiny burst of shame. He hates that he does that, though of course he'll never admit it. _A man' reputation being all he has, etc. etc. etc._

An awkward silence stretches out.

If John notices, he says nothing. Just nods to him, takes a seat beside him. "Mary headed home to keep an eye on Evie," he says quietly. "She told me to tell you, if there's anyone you want… looked in on, over this, then give her a list." His mouth twists sharply. "It's the sort of thing she's willing to come out of retirement for, apparently."

Sherlock nods absent-mindedly, not really all that interested. _He'd worked that much out, (on both counts) thanks_. His gaze is drawn back to Molly, to her tiny, broken form, lying there in the bed… So hurt, so fragile, and he the cause of it…

Abruptly he can't look at her, gets to his feet though he doesn't know why.

John frowns at him but before he can leave he plants himself in front of him, blocking Sherlock's way to the door; He has the strongest, gentlest hold on his elbow. "So it's like that, is it?" he says mildly, and Sherlock hates it, how smug he sounds. How calm. How right.

He knows damn well what his friend is getting at.

"This was Irene Adler's doing," he says instead, rather than answer the question directly. He spits the words, expels them with vicious force. "She- I had told her, long ago, about a, a… notion I had, regarding Molly…" And he grimaces. Glares at John. "It was Russia," he snaps defensively. "There was blood-loss and vodka involved-"

"Isn't there always, with you two?" the doctor inquires mildly.

But John frowns. He gestures to the patient, sleeping soundly now, no thanks to the great Sherlock Holmes. "Was this a notion regarding tying Molly up?" he asks quietly, and Sherlock knows it's a measure of how deep their friendship goes- and how worried he is- that he even asked that.

He shakes his head- he's not having this conversation with John, of all people- and gestures to Molly's hair.

"It was the halo," he says quietly. "She was wearing a tinsel halo, when we found her. The first time I met her, she was dressed as an angel. Hen do, I think. On her way out for the night." He shakes his head to himself at the memory. _So much for deleting it_ , he muses. "I believed I had deleted the memory," he says, "I always do, when it's her- but sometimes... Sometimes, when I imbibe it's been known to return…"

 _It always returns..._

John nods. "And you imbibed with Irene Adler?" he asks mildly.

Sherlock winces.

"As I said. It was Russia. There was blood-loss and vodka involved." He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair, unwilling to get onto the subject of how precisely he'd spent his two year hiatus. "Irene's the only person I ever told that to," he says eventually. "And I highly doubt that the men who took Molly just came up with her outfit off the top of their heads- Ergo, The Woman told them. She told someone my secrets…" He snorts in disgust. "Knowing Irene, she probably sold them..."

"And Molly paid the price," John mutters.

Again, he nods. "And Molly paid the price." _The words even taste bitter when he says them_. "But she'll not pay the price again, I'll not put her in that position-"

And he stands. Makes to leave. If John's here she'll be safe, if John's here she won't need him. _If John's here he won't have to look the fallout from his weakness in the face_. He may have dreamed once of being her saviour, her white knight, the man whom gratitude made into her hero but he won't insult her by using that laughable fantasy as a reason to intrude here...

He gets approximately two and a half steps towards the door before he hears her breathe out softly, her voice calling him.

He stops on the threshold of her room and looks at her. She's still asleep, he can tell, but she just called his name. She just… She just murmured something about his being her guardian angel. Him, an angel to her- It's preposterous.

 _And yet..._

Without a word Sherlock stalks back to his chair. Sits on it.

After a moment he reaches out and takes her small, cold hand from on top of the bedclothes. Covers it with his own. He glowers at John as he does so.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're looking at?" he snaps irritably, but he out of the corner of his eye he sees his friend smile.


	7. White Flag

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Pisces146, magentacr, coloradoandcolorado1, keeptheotherone, shazzykins, Soberdog and my two guests. Only one more to go so enjoy...

* * *

 _~ White Flag ~_

* * *

The first time he lets himself be… weak around her, it's months after the Adler Incident.

They're working silently together in the Lab- it's the first time he's attempted it since her return to Barts'- and she's humming to herself as she goes through her paperwork. She has her trusty ear-buds in and she's listening to what sounds like _The Beach Boys._ It's _Pet Sounds_ , if he's not mistaken.

Sherlock knows she only listens to _The Beach Boys_ when she's in a good mood and the thought makes him smile.

For it's a long time since he's seen her like this, her heart light. Her demeanour calm. In the aftermath of her ordeal she'd jumped at every sound, had to be escorted everywhere. Sherlock had become her shadow, ensuring that she always felt safe and protected, ensuring that she would never again have to go through what those bastards in the warehouse had put her through. There may have been no sexual component to the assault but what had happened to her had been horrific by anyone's standards, and Sherlock was determined to make sure she never felt even slightly frightened or uncomfortable because of it-

Eventually they'd spent so much time together that Molly's therapist had quietly taken him aside and suggested he spend less time with her. Be less of a crutch.

 _There comes a certain point in recovery,_ she'd said, _where you have to trust the patient to be strong enough **to recover**._

Sherlock had been horrified, indignant and downright vicious with the woman until she pointed out that his over-protectiveness may well have been holding Molly back.

Once she said that to him, he'd felt he had no choice but to do as the therapist asked.

He's reined in his more… protective tendencies, and stopped spending every waking moment he could with her. While she clearly hadn't liked it, she'd weathered the change and to everyone's relief she had rapidly found herself readjusting to her old life, and her old job. Sherlock had missed her terribly but he'd been glad to see her progress.

And he's glad to see her progress tonight, he thinks. He's glad to see her listening to her music again, and smiling in that way she used to do.

 _It means… It means she's healing._

 _It means she's getting better,_ he thinks.

And maybe it's the night that's in it, or maybe it's the fact that it's been so long since he's seen her this happy. Maybe it's just how lovely she looks as she bops along to the complex harmonies, but Sherlock allows himself to stop. Stare at her.

Her back's to him so there's no danger she'll see.

Under the Lab lights her hair is threaded with red and her skin, for so long pale and drawn from a lack of sunlight, is glowing.

It is in this moment that he finally allows himself to contemplate just how lovely she is.

 _Even without an angel's wings, she's beautiful._

Of course, as soon as he thinks such a thing he forces his gaze away from her. Tries to turn his attention back to his samples. He does not allow himself to think of Molly that way, not any more. Not since the Adler Incident and all it cost his pathologist. _His little crush had hurt her, and he'll not allow that to happen again._

Mary may have tracked The Woman down and forcefully explained that, no matter how broke or desperate she found herself, once again selling Sherlock's secrets on would be a deeply unwise manoeuvre, with deeply unpleasant consequences, but that didn't changed what had happened. That didn't change how much Sherlock's foolishness had cost the woman he cared about so much.

And so he'd vowed he'd never let his feelings for her get in her way again.

He'd never let himself endanger her because of his stupid, weak, covetous heart.

He'd watch over her, and he'd make sure she was alright- _he'd always make sure she was alright_ \- but he'd never again allow his desire for her to endanger her-

All of which is lovely, and heroic, and quite an easy sentiment to think when one is alone in the dark of Baker Street, he muses now, staring at her form as she bustles gracefully about the Lab. (She's always more graceful when she doesn't know he's watching). It's just a jot more difficult to keep his intentions pure when she's in front of him and smiling and looking so carefree that the Adler Incident almost might not have happened at all.

As if she suddenly senses his attention on her, Molly stops and turns to him. Pulls out her ear-buds.

"Sorry," she says, "am I distracting you?"

Sherlock shakes his head mutely and forces his attention back to his samples. More to have something to do than anything he rolls his shirt-sleeves even further up his arms. "No," he says curtly. "You're not distracting me, Molly."

 _"Distracting," is far too tame a word for what she's doing to him._

She frowns slightly though, apparently guessing from his tone that something's off, and, like she always does, she takes a step closer to him. Peers at him questioningly.

Sherlock really, really, really wishes she'd keep her distance.

"What is it, Sherlock?" she asks quietly.

The gentleness- the sweetness- of her tone makes his heart twist in his chest. It also sets his teeth on edge.

"Nothing's wrong," he says, his tone more gruff. He can't- He doesn't deserve her tenderness, her worry. He can't handle it, if she insists on assaulting him with it.

 _He has the oddest feeling he's about to do something he'll regret._

But Molly, being Molly, doesn't see the danger she's in. Doesn't read the warning signs. She's coming back to herself in more ways than one and so of course she wants to get closer. Of course she wants to help her friend, even if that friend resolutely does not deserve her help, or her friendship.

Even if that friend failed her, and let her be harmed.

"What is it?" she asks gently, stepping closer into his personal space. She reaches out and places one soft, hesitant hand on his shoulder. "What's gotten into you tonight? You can tell me…"

Sherlock forces himself not to shake her hand sharply off- he doesn't want to hurt her feelings- just as he forces himself not to react to her nearness. He can't allow himself to be so foolish- so careless- with her.

"Nothing's the matter," he repeats in a strained voice. "I assure you, Molly, I'm perfectly fine-"

"You're not. I can see you're not." She says these words without a hint of doubt or shyness. She is stating a fact, nothing more. And, as if to emphasise this, she steps in between him and the microscope, obliging him to step away from it lest she end up standing on his toes. He tries to glower at her in annoyance but it doesn't work; he can feel himself beginning to let go. Beginning to want.

 _She's close enough to touch and oh but he wants to touch her…_

"You've been like this for a while," she's saying. "Ever since… Ever since Hampstead, you've been keeping your distance. Why is that?"

Sherlock scoffs. "Keeping my distance? I spent more time with you during your recovery than I did with John when we lived together. Your landlord threatened to up your rent, I spent so much time at your flat-"

"That's not what I meant." And she peers up at him, those big brown eyes every bit as lovely as he remembers. Every bit as dangerous as he knows them to be. Her hand is sliding down from his shoulder, skating lightly over his bicep. His elbow. He feels her thumb slide lightly against the crook of his arm but he doesn't think she realises what she's doing.

She's paying too much attention to his expression to really notice it, he thinks.

But she's frowning at him, apparently confused. He's not sure about whether she's confused by him, or by her own feelings. _He can't offer her any clarity, either way._ She's holding his gaze, her eyes wide and serious and he can't help it, he can feel the want rising up within him, the desire. He needs so much to keep control of himself.

He feels himself beginning to cock his head, to lean in closer to her, and instinctively, he drops his gaze from hers to the place where her hand is stroking his arm.

It's nothing less than self-preservation to do so.

Her own gaze much match his though because when he looks up at her through his lashes she's staring down at her hand, watching in confusion as her fingers splay against the crook of his arm. Her expression is surprised… confused… and Sherlock's about to ask her what she's looking at when she blinks up at him suddenly. Her gaze is sharp now. Incisive.

Sherlock swallows rather visibly at it.

"What's this?" she asks, and she moves her thumb gently over the pale skin of his inner elbow.

"It's nothing."

He blinks, not wanting to admit how much he likes the feel of her hand there and not wanting to admit what he knows she's referring to.

 _And yet, he does._

For there, the ink even paler than his skin, is a tiny tattoo. Two white wings, the design small and elegant, the curving forms looking like nothing so much as two bass clefs, were one not to examine them closely.

 _A bass clef would prove easier to explain for a musician, after all, than two white wings._

He'd had them etched into the crook of his elbow, into the exact place he'd always favoured for shooting up. Should he attempt to inject anything intravenously he would be obliged to look at it, to think of what he was doing and who he was letting down in doing something so stupid. Who he'd be hurting and leaving to danger, should he incapacitate himself. During the first few months after the Adler Incident the tattoo had probably saved his life, forced him to stay away from drugs even when his guilt over what had happened to Molly was eating him alive-

It had even allowed him to make his peace with his memories of her, and his fantasies. His images of her in her angel's guise.

And now Molly can see them and he doesn't know what to say, how to explain their presence to her. She looks up, staring at him, and though she opens her mouth no words come out. Instead, she swallows, worry moving through her eyes. For a moment he contemplates running, contemplates disappearing into the night and finding some bolthole to disappear into, some case or distraction or mischief or, or _something_ which will allow him to delay this conversation a little while more.

But he forces himself to hold her gaze. To swallow and breathe and then compose an answer to her obvious question.

"These are for you," he says, and it's funny but he doesn't remember deciding to tell her that. "These are to remind me what happened to you, and what I owe you. They're to remind me that running away will never be an option again…"

Molly's frown deepens. "So that's what I am to you?" she asks quietly. "An obligation?"

Sherlock doesn't know why but she seems so upset by that idea.

"Not an obligation," he says. "A promise. A reason, to keep going. To, to keep fighting. Like John, and Mary, and my family, and Mrs. Hudson-"

"Except I'm embedded in your skin," she says, and she sounds so confused by that. So… hopeless.

 _He doesn't want her to feel hopeless._

He doesn't know why he does it, doesn't know how his hand finds hers. How he brings it up to his chest, his heart, but he does. "You're in deeper than my skin," he says, and it should sound ridiculous. It should sound stupid but it doesn't, it feels… It feels so important, to say it.

He wants so badly to have her understand him.

For a moment she stares at him, eyes wide and serious and still so unsure and then… Then…

She reached down and presses her lips to the tattoo.

His skin burns where she touches him.

"There's more to say," she murmurs, and he nods. "You'll have to explain," she adds and he nods to that too.

But before he says anything else he slowly, hesitantly reaches down and presses a kiss to her cheek. Then another to the corner of her mouth.

She lets out a little gasp as he does it. A smile swiftly follows it.

"There's more," he says, though whether he means words or kisses, he doesn't know.

Molly doesn't seem to mind either way.


	8. And The Dawn Run Riot In Her Smile

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to likingthistoomuch, Soberdog, kraftykathy, Bekah1218 and applejacks0808. This is the last one so enjoy!

* * *

 _~ And The Dawn Run Riot In Her Smile ~_

* * *

They make it back to Baker Street in near silence, Molly's little hand held tightly in his.

When they get out of the cab he pays the driver and then pulls her almost… shyly through the front door of 221B, head ducked, throat tight. He's a little embarrassed by how insistent he's feeling.

He's unused to showing his emotions so openly as this.

He needn't have worried though; Molly merely tightens her grip on his hand, steps inside the front door quietly. Once he closes it she leans into him, looking up at him through thick, dark lashes as if seeking his permission.

He nods, not really sure what he's agreeing to, knowing only that if Molly wants it then it can't be too bad.

She stands on her tiptoes, her hands braced against his chest as she nuzzles her nose into his throat. His cheek. Her lips find his and oh but her kiss is sweet. Her balance is so precarious that she nearly trips and instinctively his arm comes up to wrap around her waist. Keep her close to him. The heat of her body pressed against his is… intense. A delight unlike anything he's felt before. Her breasts, her arms, her breath… It's all so warm. So soothing.

He swallows hard and blinks down at her. Their breaths are mingling together, and he can see her pulse thrumming at her throat.

He has the inexplicable- mortifying- urge to lick it.

"It's- We should go upstairs," he mumbles, again embarrassed by how hoarse his voice sounds. How… wanting. How clumsy.

She nods though, her smile still soft.

"Lead the way," she says and somehow Sherlock doesn't think she's only talking about the route to his flat.

He finds the thought both touching and slightly alarming.

He nods anyway though, tightening his grip on her hand and pulling her towards the stairs. They ascend wordlessly, the only noise their breaths and the click-clack of Molly's small-heeled little shoes. Once inside she sheds her coat and bag, hanging both up while Sherlock drapes both Belstaff and suit jacket over the arm of John's old chair. He turns back to her, expecting her to speak but she doesn't. Instead she holds her hand out to him and when he takes it she steps in closer to him, again blinking up at him through those sooty, dark lashes.

"I'm… I'm not sure what to do," he stammers and her skin flushes red.

She smiles and oh but it is lovely.

"I'm not sure what to do either," she says honestly. "This is all a bit unexpected. I- I want you to be comfortable, I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do-"

"You too." He winces. He's normally not so clottish as that. "I mean," he corrects himself, "that I don't want you to feel that you- That there's anything you have to do. There isn't." His words trip over themselves, coming out too fast.

"I'm not going to push or try to make you-"

"I never thought you would."

And again he can hear it, that honesty. That trust. _He's not sure what he's ever done to earn it._ She's reached down and she's opening up his shirt-cuff now, pushing the sleeve up to roll over his bicep. He knows what she's looking for. He feels an odd, skittish thrill at the thought of her wanting to look at it. The tattoo. The reminder of her he painted onto his skin.

 _The reminder of how deeply she's embedded herself inside him._

When her fingers find it he can't help his sharp inhalation of breath and it makes her pupils dilate, her cheeks pink. It's an odd, heady feeling to know that he did that to her. Without his meaning to his fingers thread through her hair, massaging her nape as she lowers her lips to kiss the tattoo again. He really, really likes it when she does that.

He must make some noise for her head snaps up, eyes on his and he sees her trying to read his expression. There's no guile in her eyes though, no judgement, and again he feels that odd rush of comfort, of gratitude, that she can look at him like that. "Don't you want to know what it means?" he hears his own voice ask, quite without his having decided to speak.

She lowers her eyes. "Do you want to tell me?" she asks quietly. "You don't have to-"

"I think I do." And he takes a deep breath, tries to centre himself. He can't let this go any further without explaining- Without coming clean his little crush. Without coming clean about what it cost her. Without his musings those awful men would still have taken her, he's accepted that, but they wouldn't have tied her in white satin, they wouldn't have forced that tinsel halo on her head. They wouldn't have toyed with her, left her near-naked and vulnerable when they sent him that bloody message-

"What is it?" he hears her ask, and it's at this moment that he realises he's breathing rather heavily.

He looks up at her and instinctively her hand goes to his cheek.

He takes her other one and presses it against his heart.

"I have to- It was my fault," he says, and the words are halting. Stuttered. _He can see she doesn't understand._ "When they took you, it was my fault," he says more calmly. "When they put you in that awful costume, when they stripped you, it was because of me."

Now that he's started the words simply pour out of him, their first meeting, his images of her. His deletion of them- Or rather, his attempts at it. Molly Hooper, Clumsy Angel, a permanent resident inside his Mind Palace. Molly Hooper, Guardian Angel, recurring saviour when his mind is threatening to become overwhelmed.

She watches him as he speaks and he hates it, hates the understanding in her expression when he's the one who should be comforting her, he's the one who should be asking forgiveness-

He stumbles to a halt eventually, having run out of breath and words.

The silence surrounding him is so great it echoes. It aches.

He's afraid to look at Molly, to see her disappointment, her understanding of all he's cost her-

When he can't raise his eyes though, she bends down. Crouches her way into his line of vision.

There are tears on her lashes- _of course there are_ \- but she's... smiling?

 _Why on Earth would she be smiling?_ Sherlock thinks. He doesn't understand it.

For a moment all is silence, but then-

"So these are wings?" she says quietly, her fingers reaching out to trace the tattoo again. "These are _my_ wings?"

"The wings you have inside my head," he mumbles. "The wings I always imagine you with. I know- I know you're not an angel. I know you're far more real and clever and complicated than that. But in my head… In my head that's what you mean to me.

"That's how I see you."

And he reaches out, presses a swift, harsh kiss against her lips in case it's the last time he gets to do so.

He hears her take in a sharp huff of breath at it and he winces, prepares himself for her deserved, cutting rebuke. But then he feels her lips press gently against his cheek. His chin. His throat. When he looks up at her she presses a kiss to his mouth and it feels… It feels wonderful.

 _It feels like daybreak after a long, lonely night._

"I'm not an angel," she's saying, "but if you want to think of me as one- if it helps you- then I'm happy to have you think that. I'm happy to be that for you."

Her smile turns shy.

"Of course, it will only work if you're that for me, too."

He shakes his head. "I am far from a celestial messenger, Molly," he points out and to his surprise she smiles.

"Then why do I always imagine you as my guardian angel, Sherlock?" she asks.

He has no answer to that but he soon realises that he doesn't need one- Not when she's kissing him like this.

* * *

Dawn rises, sunlight stealing in through the windows of 221B Baker Street and with it comes new realisations. New notions.

 _Daybreak, is, after all, rather good for that sort of thing._

Sherlock smiles and idly strokes his hand down Molly's bare back, marvelling at the softness of her skin. The beauty of it. Its tones shift and coalesce, warm and lovely as the dawn. There's the golden of her skin when painted with sunlight. The bright glints of copper which thread through her hair even in shadow. There's the rose of her lips and the darker, duskier pink of her bare nipples, the weight of one breast a welcome weight against his hand as he leans into her back and inhales the wet, warm scent of her skin as she lies slumbering. Her body is lovely as the dawn, no angel white to rob her off her beauty. Her aliveness.

She murmurs in her sleep and leans back into him and in that moment he is content.


End file.
